


The Cave of the Fallen Angels

by dodge62



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Roaring 20's Sterek AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodge62/pseuds/dodge62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York City - 1925</p><p>At the height of the Roaring 20's and Prohibition, Detective Derek Hale is set to interrogate the notorious speakeasy owner Stiles Stilinski.  But the young hustler isn't what he's expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cave of the Fallen Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Even with the tags in place, I want to warn readers that it's pretty rough going at various times in this piece, especially in Chapter 8. I've had this story worked out for a couple of weeks and I still hesitated in writing it, and once I got into it, I knew why. It was difficult to work through and I had to keep asking myself why this story? Why these plot devices? My answer was that this was the story I chose to write. I'm not one of those writers that has to go in search of a story. Usually, I'm bombarded with ideas and sometimes those ideas are disturbing... and sometimes they won't go away. In fact, they tend to grab me by the throat and not let go until I write them out. And that's the way it was with Cave of the Fallen Angels. So proceed carefully and don't say that you weren't warned.
> 
> Is there a happy ending? You'll have to read it and find out.

“My girlish delight in barrooms received a serious setback a week or so ago in a place which shall, not to say should, be nameless. The cause was a good old-fashioned raid. It wasn’t one of those refined modern things where gentlemen in evening dress arise suavely from ringside tables and depart, arm-in-arm, towards the waiting patrol wagons. It was one of those movie affairs where burly cops kicked down the doors and women fall fainting on tables and strong men crawl under them and waiters shriek and start throwing bottles out of windows.”

Lois Long - aka Lipstick - writing for The New Yorker magazine - 1925

 

Stilinski stood in the center of the interrogation room, hands on his head, wearing nothing but a set of loose drawers. What set them apart was that they were handmade from silk. Several dozen silk worms had given their lives for them. If that weren’t enough, his initials were embroidered just above the knee. God only knew how many old Belgian women had gone blind hand-stitching those. He stared at the wall in front of him, bland, disinterested and unaffected.

The room had seen a mop once or twice since the Great War, but otherwise it was a concrete square with a pitted linoleum floor. It was one of those places that looked like it had been in use since the Draft Riots, but was really only half as old.

Detective Derek Hale was dying for a cigarette, but he had smoked his last one before they brought the kid in. He wasn't going to ask him for one, so he went back to trying to annoy the guy. He wanted to get under his skin and maybe make a little headway with him.

He took his time going through Stilinski’s clothes. On the dented metal table in front of him were a full tuxedo, wallet, wristwatch and keys. Also, a cigarette case and lighter, signet ring, shoes, socks and handkerchief. He figured their combined worth was three years salary for him, not counting sick pay.

“You own The Cave of the Fallen Angels down in Hell’s Kitchen.” Hale’s tone was subdued, relaxed, matter of fact. When Stilinski didn’t answer him, he turned his eyes up at him without raising his head. “Well?”

“If you say so.” Stilinski’s expression didn’t change. Not even his pits were damp.

“If I say so? What’s that mean, if I say so? You own the dump or not?”

“It’s not a dump. But if you can find a deed, bank account, receipt, bill of laden or tax return with my name on it, then come talk to me.”

“Like I have that kind of time. Who’d you piss off, anyway?”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

There’re about 20,000 speakeasies in this town… maybe as many as 100,000… nobody knows for sure. And they all just swim along day after day, when suddenly and for no particular reason, half the 12th Precinct decides to drop in on you and pay you a visit. Kinda suspicious, wouldn’t you say, Stilinski… Is that what your friends call you? Stilinski?”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“No, of course not. What was I thinking? Tough guys like you don’t have friends. Excuse me. I won’t make that mistake again. Let’s try this, what does your mother call you? You have a mother, right? Or did you crawl out from under a rock?”

“You read too many comic books.”

“So… you don’t have a moth…”

“She calls me Stiles.”

“Stiles. Ok, that makes sense. So, yeah, 100,000 maybe. Guys like you don’t get raided unless they’ve pissed somebody off, so who was it?”

Stilinski didn’t answer him, but his pits were suddenly moist.

“How old are you, Stiles? 22? 23?”

“I’m 21.”

“21! Playing awfully rough for a 21 year old, you know that? You got a wallet here with $2,000 in it. You know how long it’d take me to make $2,000? Six months… a little more than that. You got an engraved gold wristwatch, a cigarette case… what is that? Gold? Is that gold, too? Huh?”

“Just put it in your pocket, detective, and we’ll call it a night.”

Hale stared at the kid and then sat down in a metal chair along side the table. “I don’t smoke,” he said, putting his feet up.

A phone mounted on the wall behind him started to ring and Hale picked up the ear piece and listened without saying anything. Then he nodded and hung up. “You can put your clothes back on.”

Stilinski hauled his hands off his head and moved his arms around in their sockets to loosen them up.

“Strange that your attorney never showed up, ain’t it?” Hale jerked his thumb back at the phone. "But I guess you still got some friends in high places. Or maybe somebody just wanted to teach you a lesson, is that it? Daddy spank?" He grabbed Stilinski’s hands. "Nice manicure. Toenails, too, I noticed. It’d be a shame if somebody messed them up. Son of a bitch, Stiles, the life you must lead.”

“Wanna see the silver spoon I keep in my ass?” Stilinski asked, stepping into his trousers.

“Nah. We’ll save that for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time. I pay you assholes good money to keep away from my club… whosever club… and we still get raided, but I’ll get to the bottom of it, so help me. I guess the place is pretty broken up, alright.”

“What do you care if it ain’t your club?”

Stilinski stopped buttoning his shirt and looked at Hale. “Point,” was all he said and then continued dressing.

“Is it true you can rent boys at your place by the hour? University types looking to make a few extra bucks?”

“Mrs. Stilinski didn’t raise any sons dumb enough to admit to being a pimp in front of a cop. Nice try, though.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Stilinski finished tying his shoes and put on his jacket. He started filling the pockets with wallet, keys, the usual. “You know what I do to make $2,000 a week, detective? I read people. I shake their hands, exchange a few words, and suddenly I know what they want.”

“Yeah? And how do you do that?”

“I watch, I listen and I use a little deduction. You know, just like Sherlock Holmes. And I’m never wrong… You guys need a mirror in here. Is my tie straight?”

Hale got up from his chair, lifted the boy’s chin and undid the tie. “You made a mess of it… wait a minute… probably got a guy at home to do this for you… there.”

Stilinski look at him and then nodded. He cleared his throat and then went on with what he was saying. “Anyway, any time you want to come down to the club, detective, check out those rumors about guys renting themselves out, just show this to the doorman…” Stilinski pulled out a card and casually tapped it down into Hale’s front suit pocket.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not saying you’ll find anything, but come down and look for yourself.” Stilinski drew a cigarette from his case, lit it and looked back at Hale. “Like I said, detective, I’m never wrong.”

“About what?” Hale was getting indignant.

Stilinski took out a second cigarette and stuck it between Hale’s lips, then flipped open his lighter.

Hale took a long drag, never taking his eyes off of Stiles. “How’d you know?” he asked after exhaling a cloud of bluish gray smoke.

“There’re nicotine stains between the index and middle fingers of your right hand,” Stilinski told him, brushing cigarette ash off of his perfectly pressed sleeve.

Hale studied his hand and then looked back at Stilinski. “Touché.”

“So, I can go?”

Hale opened the door and watched him pass through the crowded station and out into the night.


	2. A Meeting With the Baron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Hale follows up on Stilinski's invitation to visit the Cave of the Fallen Angels, with unexpected results.

“Prohibition would never have been a necessity had young people ‘learned to drink with aplomb’ rather than excessive debauchery. The answer lies in the nursery and in the classroom… We will teach the young to drink. There would not be so many embarrassing incidents of young men falling asleep under the nearest potted palm or playing ping-pong with Ming china if little Johnny at the age of six, had been kept in regularly at recess to make up his work because he had failed to manage his pint in Scotch class.”

Lois Long – aka Lipstick – writing for The New Yorker magazine - 1925

 

“I think I caused you just a little bit of trouble last week? Would you prefer it happened a second time? Or a third?”

The guy had a Katzenjammer accent, breath that could knock down the Teutoburgerwald and teeth that reminded Stilinski of blue cheese. He was obese, in his mid-50’s and expensively dressed. The worst thing about him was that he smelt, like he hadn’t washed in a couple of weeks, with grimy fingernails and hair slicked back with what looked axel grease.

Stilinski was sitting behind his desk in his shirt-sleeves, shuffling and re-shuffling a deck of cards. A custom made cigarette hung out of the right side of his mouth, causing him to squint while he studied the man.

“Answer’s still no, baron. There’re 20 guys that work out of here. What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re not Allen,” the baron shrugged. “Boys generally don’t tell their pimps what they will and will not do. You need to tighten up your trade, Stiles You’re getting sloppy.”

Stilinski got up from his desk and walked over to a set of shutters set into the wall. He pulled them back revealing a downward glance at the club in full swing.

“That look sloppy to you? Listen, baron, I don’t want to argue. You can have your pick of any guy in the joint, on the house. Just point him out.”

The man produced a slim platinum cigarette case, drew out a long, slender cigarette and tapped it lightly against the case.

“The word on the street is that Allen is your boy and that’s why you’re protecting him. That’s not good business, Stiles. You don’t shit where you eat.”

Stilinski walked over to his desk and picked up a set of keys. He tossed them over to the baron who fumbled the toss and wound up having to pick them up off the floor, something his girth made difficult.

“The keys to my apartment, baron. I’ll have a car brought around and you can go see for yourself. Just don’t touch the silver ware.”

The baron laughed, got up from his seat with some difficulty and placed the keys back on Stilinsky’s desk.

“Thanks for the offer, Stiles, but I don’t want to wind up in the river. You would be a hard man to bring down. It would be difficult, but not impossible. There’s no shortage of meat hooks in this city, but let's not quarrel. Instead, here’s a thought. Your offer of any boy in the place? Does that include you?”

Stilinski felt his dick draw up next to his bladder, but he managed a smile.

“Sure. But not on the house. So, for a quarter million you can have anything you want.”

“Anything?”

Stilinski was aware of the baron’s eccentricities.

“Anything that doesn’t leave marks,” Stiles responded as though he meant it.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

“Yeah, what is it?”

A young man, pretty rather than handsome, beautifully dressed, came into the room. He started to say something, but when he saw the baron he walked over to Stiles and whispered something in his ear.

“Really?” Stiles asked the man, brightening. “How do you like that? Well, don’t just stand there! Bring the guy in for chrissake.”

Detective Hale walked in, dressed in a suit, hat in hand, but not intimidated by either Stilinski or the baron. He nodded to Stiles and then regarded the baron the same way he might look at a beached whale he found in his living room.

“Baron, I’d like you to meet Detective Hale. Detective, this is Baron…”

“Ah, that won’t be necessary, Stiles. I’m sure the detective understands the importance of delicacy in these matters. I’ll think about what you said,” the baron glanced at Stiles, nodded at Hale and waddled out.

Stilinski dropped into his chair and had a good laugh.

“Good timing, Hale! I’ll wager the baron’s sphincter won’t relax for about a week. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

Hale gave him a steely-eyed stare and looked for a place to put his hat.

“Ok, maybe the wrong question to start out the evening with.” Stiles took the detective’s hat and placed it on his desk. “How about a smoke?” Stiles asked, taking out a cigarette and offering the case to Hale.

Derek drew out one the long, tan cigarettes and let Stiles light it for him. He nodded toward the door.

“Wasn’t that Baron von Blankenfeld?”

Stiles leaned against his desk and studied Hale for a while before answering.

“That depends on whether or not you’re here in an official capacity.”

“I’m free-lancing tonight. Let’s agree that anything said between you and me is off the record.”

Stiles nodded slowly, wondering if he could trust the guy.

“I should ask you to strip down to see if you’re wearing a wire.”

Hale stood up and started to take off his coat. Stiles was going to stop him, but then decided to see how far the detective was willing to go. He decided he could trust him about the time Hale was stepping out of his trousers. Stilinski had some difficulty dragging his eyes off the man’s lean, sculpted torso.

“Put your clothes back on, detective. You’ve made your point. No, wait. I have a better idea…”

Stiles pressed a button on his desk and the same young man entered, almost slamming into Stiles, because he was looking at Derek.

“I’m over here, asshole,” Stiles groused. “Get this guy some clothes… what? A 40 regular, I guess? We’re going out.”

The man left, red-faced and returned a few minutes later with a set of evening clothes.

“What’s this?”

“I want to get out of here for a while. You like jazz?”

Hale shrugged and proceeded to finish undressing and get into the dinner jacket.

“We’ll go over to the Cotton Club for a while. Unwind. What do you say?”

“Whatever you want…”

They piled into Stiles’ car and he told the driver where they were going. He set out his cigarette case on a polished redwood burl table that unfolded out of the front seat and invited Hale to help himself.

“Did you have a look around?” Stiles asked, settling back into the plush seat.

“I told you, I’m off-duty.”

“Ok, let me put it this way… do you care?”

“Not tonight,” Hale answered. He hesitated for a moment, then made a pronounced effort to relax, sat back and made eye contact with Stiles. “What did the baron want?”

Stiles grinned. “Why should I tell you that?”

“Because you’re never wrong.”

Stiles let out a laugh. “Ok, detective… that seems a little awkward. Can I call you Derek?”

“Sure, if you want… Stiles.”

“The baron, who is a complete pig, by the way, with some personal habits that aren’t to be believed, fell for one of my boys. A guy named Allen. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but the baron was obsessed. He got pretty aggressive, had Allen followed, sent expensive gifts, then when Allen wouldn’t shack up with him, threatened to have him castrated.”

“Pretty twisted,” Derek said, helping himself to another cigarette.

“Pretty twisted, that’s right,” Stiles said nodding. “Anyway, I got the kid into Oxford over in the UK and now the baron’s peeved, because I won’t tell him where he is.”

“And so the raid.”

“Very good, Derek. Did you figure that out for yourself, of did you have help?”

Derek grinned at him and pantomimed flashing a badge. “I’m a detective!”

Stiles had a good laugh and nodded approvingly.

“Look, why don’t you tell him the truth?” Derek offered. “I’ll alert Scotland Yard and they’ll pick him up as soon as he gets off the boat. Problem solved.”

“By, God, Derek! I like the way you think! Now all you gotta do is explain to me why you’re so up for thinking that way.”

“The Cotton Club, sir,” the driver announced.


	3. The Cotton Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

“Another thing that your most high hat friends have recently discovered is the Cotton Club in Harlem. I cannot believe that most of them realize that they are listening to probably the greatest jazz orchestra of all time, which is Duke Ellington’s. I’ll fight anyone who says different. It is rhythmic and barbaric and brassy as jazz ought to be. It is all too much for an impressionable girl.”

Lois Long - aka Lipstick - writing for The New Yorker - 1925

They were shown a table at ringside, but Stilinski asked for something farther away and they wound up in a private booth at the back of the place. It was a hot summer’s night and the place smelt of spilt booze, expensive perfume mixed with sweat and polished wood soaked through with stale beer.

Duke Ellington was playing and the pulse and rhythm of the band vibrated through the floorboards, up through the tables and ended with the drinks rippling in their imported crystal and hand-blown glass.

Stilinski order them something Derek couldn’t hear and then offered him a cigarette.

“You like jazz, Hale?” Stilinski was swaying to the music, moving like a cat while he mimicked the drummer’s moves and tapped his foot to the beat.

“I don’t know that much about it, “ Hale said, matter-of-factly like almost everything that came out of his mouth.

Stiles had his eyes closed, lost in the heat and the noise and the smell, but now he opened one eye and looked over at Hale, then he came out of his trance, leaned over the table and looked the uneasy detective in the eye.

“You know where the name ‘jazz’ comes from, Hale? It’s a turn on the word ‘jizz’. It means to get off. You’re listening to the only totally impromptu art-form in the world.” Stiles punctuated his point with an air riff across the table. He looked back at Derek and grinned. “We need to get you out more, detective.”

A waiter glided by and dropped off two frosty mugs of what looked like stout. Derek started to object, but Stiles grinned at him and took a big gulp from his mug. “It’s root beer, Hale, so don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Derek laughed at that and joined him in a drink. “You didn’t have to do that for me…”

“I didn’t. I don’t drink.”

Hale brought his mug away from his mouth and studied Stiles, looking for some sign that he was pulling his leg, but the boy held his gaze and didn’t flinch.

“Surprised?” Stilinski made a whirling motion with his hand around the side of his head. “It fucks things up… up here. Not good for business. These are bad enough…” He set his cigarette case on the table and, lighting one, took a deep, grateful drag.

“You offered me a drink back at the club.”

“Yeah, you. Nothing for me. Don’t get me wrong, Derek. I don’t give a hoot in hell about all this prohibition stuff. I just don’t like… I don’t like the taste.” Stiles took another gulp from his root beer. “So, why’d you come by tonight? What’s on your mind?”

“You invited me.”

“Yeah, I did. In an official capacity, though, so you could hunt for those poor boys I’m victimizing. Not as a house guest.”

“You want me to leave?” Derek started to get up, but Stiles motioned him back down with a wave of his hand.

“Relax, Derek. If I didn’t want you along, I wouldn’t have offered. You accept invitations from other bootleggers so enthusiastically?”

“Nope.”

“So what, then? What’s up with you?”

“Off the record?”

“Like we said.”

Derek moved all the way over on the bench seat and leaned his head against the wall. Stiles watched him from behind intelligent brown eyes.

“I can talk to you, I guess. I realized that the other night. If you’re a chump and try to set me up, no one’s gonna believe you. But if you want to know what makes me tick, then I have somebody to chew the fat with. Thing is, I like the freedom you have. Booze, boys, girls… anything goes, I guess.”

“Not anything, but mostly, yeah. No drugs. I don’t let drugs in the club. Or rummys. Anything that makes a slave outta a guy. I hate that.”

“Is that why you don’t like the baron?”

“Yeah.” Stiles suddenly wouldn’t look at him. He stubbed out his cigarette and looked around the room. “You like this place?”

“Yeah, I do. I’ve never…”

“May we join you, Stiles?”

The question came from a very refined older man accompanied by a good looking blond in his late teens. The boy was very well dressed, not overly done, just classy, well groomed, masculine and polite, but there was something tawdry about him all the same. Cheap. Derek decided that you really couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

“Joseph!” Stiles was on his feet in a heartbeat, signaling that a VIP had just turned up. “My God, I haven’t seen you in months. Come on, sit down.”

Stiles moved to join Derek with a slight nod that indicated business was about to take place. Derek noticed that while Stiles was gracious to the boy, it was something of a put on, the same way Joseph treated him when he was introduced.

Stiles called over the waiter, drinks were ordered and he then slid into the booth next to Derek. Derek had never been so close to Stiles before, not even when he’d had the guy standing nearly naked in a cramped interrogation room. He surreptitiously leaned over and breathed in Stiles’ scent, a mix of expensive tobacco, imported soap, but also something else. A personal smell that Derek knew wasn’t something that could be washed away, something peculiar to Stiles Stilinski and he was intoxicated by it.

“You know, Stiles,” Joseph began with that casual, tactful air refined men use when discussing something disreputable, “my friend Peter here is looking for work. He’s just begun university at Rutgers and he needs a bit more income than his parents can afford…”

And so the evening went, the weave and bob of an upscale pimp looking over questionable merchandise that needed dumping by an important john. Derek could tell that Stiles wasn’t impressed, but also couldn’t afford to insult Joseph. It was obvious that Joseph had been keeping the boy, but was now tiring of him and was looking to move on. Still, honor among thieves being what it was, he couldn’t just dump the boy on the street. He decided that there had been something between them a while ago, maybe when they first met, but now that was gone and so the awkward negotiation.

As the evening wore on, they all became more comfortable and relaxed somewhat helped along by hot jazz and, once business was done, the casual conversation of worldly men. Derek didn’t remember when he noticed Stiles’ leg pressed against his, but it seemed natural enough. He had the strange feeling that Stiles was drawing strength from the contact and it was more intimacy than Derek had experienced in years.

About 4am the party broke up, hands were shaken all around and Stiles told the boy he’d see him tomorrow night at his club. Derek now understood why the place referred to fallen angles.

They weaved their way across the dance floor, still going strong, and out onto the street to flag down their car when a man approached Stiles and held out a large tan envelop. 

“Mr. Stilinski, with the baron’s compliments. He asked me to tell you to stick it…”

The man lunged with his knife from under the envelope, but Derek saw the ruse coming at the last moment and deflected the blow away from Stile’s gut though it wound up slicing through his lower arm instead.

“Shit!” was all Stiles got out before Derek shoved him out of the way and knocked the finger-man to the ground. The crowd was stunned, women screamed, men pulled them out of harm’s way and from the corner of his eye Derek saw two other men making their way towards them, not dressed for a swank club, but rather in cheap suits so he assumed the worst.

Pushing aside an elegant couple about to enter a cab, Derek shoved Stiles down on the seat and followed him in, slamming the door shut behind him. “Drive! Now! GO!” The huge cab screeched away from the curb and turned left down 142nd Street.

“Where the hell am I going?” yelled the cabbie over his shoulder.

“Just drive around. Make sure nobody’s following us,” Derek yelled back, looking out the back window, watching the two men trying to hail a cab over the objections of the smart hoi-polloi. A pair of their own stealing a cab was one thing, rangy hit men trying it was quite another.

“Why didn’t we take my car?” Stiles asked, wincing as Derek pulled back his bloody sleeve.

“No time and they may have a car out waiting for you. That tug-boat of yours is hard to miss.”

“Tug-boat?”

“Sit back, Stiles, it could have been worse, but you’re still sliced up pretty bad.”

“I guess I owe you one… or twenty. What’s a few knife fights among friends… Christ, that hurts.”

Stiles was holding his arm over the cab floor watching the blood gush up from a 6” gash. Derek yanked out Stiles’ pocket square and wrapped it tightly around the wound, securing it with his tie.

“That’s 600 thread count Egyptian cotton you’re ruining there, detective, you know that?”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t time to get your knickers off so we had to slum it.”

To Derek’s surprise, Stiles let out a belly laugh and smacked him on the shoulder with his good hand. “Goddamnit, Hale, you’re not put off by me one bit, are you?”

“No,” Derek said, double checking his make-shift bandage. “Kinda the opposite, I guess…” The words were long gone by the time Derek realized what he’d said and he tried to casually look up at Stilinski.

Stiles was looking at him like he’d just sucker punched him, but then his face changed and he slowly nodded his agreement.

“Maybe we better get you to a hospital,” Derek said quietly, looking back down at Stiles’ arm.

“Yeah, maybe we’d better… no, wait. There’ll be photographers all over the place this time of night and what if the medics decide to keep me there? I’ll be a sitting duck. How about your place? No one knows who you are.”

“My… Jesus, Stiles, you need a medic not a needle and thread.”

“I’ll take care of it, Derek. Just get me to your place and we’ll be alright.”

The color had drained out of his face by then and he eased himself onto Derek’s shoulder. Derek put his arm around him and gave the cabbie his address.


	4. I'll Be Seeing You

“Texas Guinan, who is now carousing at the Salon Royale, has added to her show a girl who does a Hootch dance with the aid of a real boa constrictor, a good 8 feet long. Since Texas’s place is legitimately open until 7am or later, and is therefore the last stop on the nightclub whirl, you can imagine the effect of this on late arrivals who are a little the worse for wear.”

Lipstick – 1925

 

Hale’s apartment was a third floor walk up over an Italian grocery at the corner of Bleeker and Christopher streets in the West Village. It was a comfortably shabby neighborhood, not unlike the man himself, but hinted at the bohemian wanting to get out.

Stilinski did ok with the stairs until the last flight when Hale had to hold him up to keep him from passing out. He had to admit that having the guy lean on him for support was stirring up emotions that were both unfamiliar and unsettling. That the guy’s makeshift bandage was soaked through and dripping on the stairs didn’t faze him at all.

He unlocked the door and flipped on a light, then steered Stiles to a comfortable, beat up leather chair opposite a series of large windows leading out to a dubious looking fire escape.

“Jesus, Hale, stop cleaning the place and just start over,” Stiles said groggily, looking around.

The apartment wasn’t a mess, but it wasn’t neat and tidy either. It was a three room bachelor flat with a rumpled bed in the middle of the room, wooden floors that must have been icy in winter and with the smell of Bay Rum hovering in the air. The exception was a series of wooden shelves hanging on one wall holding several exquisite Japanese porcelain teacups and flanked by two painted oriental fans. As Stiles sank into the chair the shelves were brought eye level and Stiles smiled slightly, touched at the quaintness and unexpectedness of the set up.

“You got a phone?”

Hale picked up a pedestal telephone sitting on a on a slightly scratched, but well-dusted walnut table near the windows, but Stilinski just waved his hand at him. 

“Eastside 749… you got a bucket? I think I’m gonna throw up…”

Derek dropped the phone and pulled a bucket from under a small, slightly rusted sink. He got it under Stiles chin just before the guy let loose with a foamy, root beer smelling bile. Derek held Stilinski’s head with a hand over the boy’s forehead and when he’d finished, Stiles put his good hand over Derek’s and held it there for a minute.

“Mmmmmmm… So cool…” Stiles said softly.

“Let me telephone…” Derek whispered to him. Stiles nodded and let go of his hand.

An hour and a half later, Stiles arm was stitched and neatly bandaged, and a Doc was rolling down his sleeves.

“I’d much rather you went to the hospital, Mr. Stilinski. It’s a nasty wound and I’m worried about infection setting in.”

“I’ll come later,” Stiles said smiling a winning smile. “Right now, I just want to rest.”

“Alright, but I’ll expect you later today, is that clear?”

Stiles didn’t answer, but simply gave the man a limp salute.

“Your car’s outside should you change your mind.”

“Yeah, a lot of good he did us tonight. If Hale here hadn’t been with me, I’d be in the morgue.”

The doctor nodded at him with a wane smile and Hale realized this wasn’t the first time the man had been called out to perform impromptu surgery. He handed Derek a bottle of pills.

“Give him one of these every four hours, Mr. Hale, with lots of water. The injection I gave him will be wearing off in a few hours and he’ll experience some pain.”

Derek glanced at the label on the bottle and then shoved them in his pocket.

“If the wound begins to bleed profusely or if the pain can’t be managed by the pills, call me and we’ll get him to the hospital regardless of how much he objects.”

“I heard that, Doc. Jeeze, a guy get’s stuck and suddenly everybody wants to tell him what to do. Don’t worry. You know that under this stern exterior I’m all fluff.”

The doctor shook Derek’s hand and left.

“Hey, Hale, you mind if I sit in the window? It’s hot as hell in here.”

Hale put his hand back over the boy’s forehead.

“You’re running a fever. You should be in bed.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Hale. If you don’t know by now, I’m really high maintenance. Just get me over to the window.”

Stiles was stripped to the waist, his silk shirt a bloody rag tossed into a bin under the sink. Hale got under his arm and lifted him up, a slight tinge of vomit and body order clinging to him. Still, the feel of Stilinski’s naked skin was mildly arousing and Hale had to push away the image of the boy laying in his bed, waiting for him to turn off the light and put the cat out.

“If you fall out the window, I’ll never forgive myself,” Hale mentioned to him as they stumbled across the floor.

“Yeah? I haven’t had time to mention you in the will. What were those pills the medic gave you?”

“Morphine.”

“Typical. Well, throw ‘em away. “

Hale deposited Stiles in the window, making sure he was well-settled.

“Derek, what’s that?”

Stiles was looking at a large tan envelop laying on the bed.

“Huh? Oh. Funny how you don’t think about things sometimes. That’s the envelope the guy used to cover his knife. I must have brought it with us without thinking.”

He crossed to the bed and retrieved the envelope. Stiles reached into his pocket and managed a cigarette. His moves were very precise and deliberate, and he sat back and exhaled smoke into the cool early morning with the air of a man waiting for a firing squad.

“Is there anything in it?”

Derek bent it slightly back and forth.

“Feels like photos or something…”

He handed it to Stiles and then made to straighten up a bit, rinsing out the sick bucket, hanging up Stiles’ vest and jacket, dumping an ashtray on the bed stand.

“I think these were meant for you,” Stiles said, looking through the contents and then sliding them back into the envelope.

“Me?”

“Yeah. The baron wants you to know all about me.”

Hale wiped his hands on a crumpled dishtowel and pulled out three large, grainy photos, obviously taken by an amateur using insufficient light and the wrong shutter speed. Still, it wasn’t difficult to make out Stilinski, naked and strung up from some complicated looking rig, with clamps attached to his nipples and balls, being fucked from behind by someone Hale couldn’t make out. In the background, men in evening clothes stood around and watched or groped one another through exquisitely tailored trousers of cotton and gabardine trim.

Hale stood in the middle of the room, holding the photos for a long time before looking back at Stiles. Seeing the photos was the emotional equivalent of being punched hard in the gut and he needed a minute to catch his breath.

“The guy in the back, the one fucking me? That’s the baron, in case you had trouble making him out.”

“Shut-up, Stiles.”

“Yeah, after he finished the other guys took turns loading up my ass…”

“I said, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Hale crumpled up the photos and threw them in the sink. He pulled matches from his pocket and set them ablaze.

“That won’t make them go away, Derek.”

“Why did you show me those? You could have just… just…”

“Kept them to myself? No. When you go to work later this morning there will be an identical set waiting for you on your desk, just not in an envelope.”

“This has happened before.”

“Oh, yeah. One of life’s little lessons, one mistake and you’re through.”

Stiles eased himself out of the window and gathered up his jacket and vest, hanging with shattered domestic familiarity in Hale’s closet.

“Where are you going?” Hale asked him without looking at him.

“You need some time to yourself, detective.”

“Did you…”

“Enjoy it? Yeah, I did. And lest you try and minimize it, I mean all of it. The forced nudity, the ball clamps, the humiliation…”

“That’s enough.”

“I like you, Hale. A lot. And guys like the baron, well, he’s even more fucked up than I am. He was going to make sure you found out one way or the other. I liked you enough that I wanted you to hear it from me, the whole black and awful business.”

“You’d better go.”

“Yeah, like I said, I’m never wrong. Take care of yourself, detective. It was nice knowing you.”

He closed the door behind him and Hale listened as his steps made their uneasy way down the stairs.

“Let’s go home…” drifted up through the window like something whispered late at night through a drunken haze, the boy’s rough, melodic voice holding back his tears while putting on a brave face for the hired help.

There was a roar and then a slight whir as the driver started the engine, released the brake and eased the car into gear, magnified in an uncomfortable, dizzy hyper reality. The tires eased over some gravel in the gutter and then gradually started to hum as they pulled away from the curb and made their way down Bleeker Street. 

Hale felt a big chunk of himself go numb and he closed the window shades against the strengthening sun.


	5. Subtext

“To the accompaniment of the slight shiver of outworn padlocks, Barney Gallant is doing business at the Old Stand. The place is dimly lit, comfortable and decorated in modernistic bohemian fashion. The revue is as bad as ever. I don’t like to put any deserving black-bottomed dancers out of a job, but I don’t see why Barney bothers with entertainment at all. In a place as dark as that, people ought to be able to entertain themselves.”

Lipstick – 1925

 

The photos were on Hale’s desk, just like Stilinski said they’d be. He fanned them out with one hand, glanced at them and then stacked them up, tore them into pieces and threw them away.

He was going through his messages when the precinct captain walked through the loud, busy bullpen.

“Glad to see you could make it in, detective. The superintendent called me this morning. He said he ran into you at the Cotton Club last night, that you damn near knocked him over.”

“Yeah, like I got the cash to spend at the Cotton Club.”

“You’re not taking bribes are you, Hale? Off that… What’s his name…”

“Stilinski?”

“Yeah, him. You wouldn’t be getting bribes from that kid, would you?”

“No. Would you?”

“Serves me right for asking you a direct question. Did you ever check that place out?”

“Yeah. Aside from the bootlegging, shaking down drunks, bribes to officials and watered down drinks, it’s clean.”

“So, nothing out of the usual?”

“Not as long as the cash flows into the right pockets.”

“Ok. Come to my office later this afternoon. I want you to look into…”

“You know, captain, I wouldn’t mind another assignment… Maybe a nice quiet murder or something.”

“You feeling a little put out, detective? The sordid lifestyles of our assorted bootleggers getting you down? Listen, Hale, I don’t need superintendents calling me at 7:00am, chewing my ass out wondering what one of my detectives is doing out with some underage Pollack pimp at one of the swankiest clubs in town.”

“I told you…”

“He said you shoved he and his wife outta the way so you could steal their cab… and that you were with this Stilinski guy.”

“I’d say the superintendent should get his eyes checked.”

“Don’t be a smartass, detective. This is the sort of thing that can get out of control very quickly, especially if the department decides not to come down on your side. Get it?”

The bullpen fell silent.

“Yeah, captain. I get it.”

“Good. You write me up everything you got on this Stilinski kid, understand? Maybe the son of a bitch needs a little time away, compliments of Uncle Sam…”

* * *

“My goodness! What happened to your arm, Stiles?” Did you have an accident or something?”

The baron lumbered into Stilinski’s office, lighting a cigarette and smiling like a bloated Cheshire cat.

“Nothing serious, baron. I wasn’t paying attention and things got away from me.”

“You should be more careful. It always pays to keep a close eye on what you’re doing, then these thing won’t happen. Where is Detective Hale this evening?

“Detective Hale is on his beat, like any good 5.”

“You didn’t have a falling out, I hope.”

Nah, nothing like that. Actually, the evening was pretty dull, aside from this…” Stilinski held up his arm and wiggled his fingers. Though the motion hurt like a son of a bitch, he smiled like everything was right as rain.

“Really? Well, I’m happy to hear it. He seems very nice and I was worried that maybe he’d been seeing too much of you.”

“Nothing to worry about, baron. As a matter of fact, I had just hung up with him before you came in.”

The baron smiled tightly and took another drag from his tidy, custom-made dugan.

Stiles got up from behind his desk and walked around to sit on the corner. He lit one of his own and smiled brightly at the porcine German.

“Actually, baron, I was hoping you’d drop by tonight. I have someone I’d like you to meet…”

Stiles leaned across his desk and pressed the call button. A moment later the same pretty young man walked in.

“Ask him to come in here, would you? And bring the baron a drink… something from Scotland with a double digit.”

The young man nodded and went out.

“Tsk, tsk, Stiles. You think you can buy me off with some new boy? You know how I feel. If it isn’t Alan, I don’t even want to meet…”

Peter, the boy from the evening before, entered without knocking, wearing a shy smile, glancing first at Stiles and then at the baron, whose powers of speech suddenly failed him.

“Baron, I’d like you to meet Peter Hamilton.”

The boy moved flawlessly over to the baron and shook the man’s hand. Somehow he did it without seeming obsequious or cloying and the baron was hooked.

“I’m very happy to meet you, Peter. I haven’t seen you around here before, have I?”

“No, baron, I just met Mr. Stilinski last night by way of a family friend. You wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you?”

Peter was checking his pockets, but the baron was on his flat feet in a heartbeat with his lighter at the ready like an anxious schoolboy.

“Oh… Thank you, baron.” Peter took the man’s hand to steady it and looked up at him through the smoke. Stilinski thought the baron was going to wet himself.

Drinks arrived and when the waiter had left, everyone settled down for a cozy chat.

“So, Peter, you’ve only been working here, well, is tonight your first night?”

“Working?” Peter’s vacant expression was perfect.

“No, baron, you misunderstand. Peter is a friend of a friend, not an employee. This is a social occasion…”

“To be honest, baron, I asked Mr. Stilinski to introduce us. Over drinks last night, I was telling him how bored I was meeting men with no sophistication or life experience. There are so many things I’m curious about…”

Stiles cleared his throat.

“Anyway, when he told me about you, I insisted that he set up an introduction.”

Peter had made the transition without breaking a sweat.

The baron was mesmerized, as Stilinski hoped he’d be. Fixing up Peter with the baron had come to him in a flash of inspiration earlier in the day and he had taken all afternoon to coach the boy for the meeting. Now, 12 hours and a few thousand dollars later, everything was working out perfectly.

“I’m flattered, Stiles, I really am… Ah… There are no hard feelings, I hope…” The baron winked at Peter. “Business, you know, Peter. Mr. Stilinski and I have been working together on a very complicated deal, but now that seems to be behind us… so no more surprises, Stiles. Agreed?”

“I agree, absolutely, baron. I think we can move on.”

“Are you in school, Peter?”

“At Rutgers, sir. Art history.”

“There’s no need to be so formal, Peter. I want us to be great friends. Why don’t you call me Gerhard?”

Stilinski practically fell out of his chair.

“Peter, have you ever dined at 21? I have a standing reservation…”

“I’d enjoy that very much, sir… erm, Gerhard.”

“Will you join us, Stiles?” the baron offered half-heartedly, getting up from his seat. Stilinski was afraid the chair was going to come up with him, but at the last moment it jiggled free and settled back onto the carpet.

“Very generous of you, baron, but I’ve got tons of work to do.” Stiles gestured at the piles of paper littering his desk. “But thanks anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” the baron said with a wave of his hand. “Shall we go, Peter? There’s so much I want to ask you…”

As soon as the loving couple was out the door, Stilinski fell back into his chair, grinning from ear to ear. He lit a cigarette and checked his watch. It was just after 2:00am. He rang for his car and struggled into his coat.

He walked through the kitchen, smiling, shaking a hand here, checking a dish there, then exited out the back door and into the alley that ran behind the club. It was pouring rain, something he hadn’t realized stuck up in his office, but the cool, moist air felt wonderful.

His driver jumped out of the car, umbrella in hand, and he gently guided Stilinsky into the back seat.

“Are you feeling alright, sir? You look very pale.”

“Just tired as hell. Let’s go home.”

The driver started the engine and Stilinski settled into the back seat and closed his eyes. The car leapt gently forward, but only went a few yards before it jerked to a stop.

“Sir?”

Stiles opened his eyes. Illuminated by the car’s powerful headlamps, Detective Hale stood at the entrance to the alley, the rain streaming off his hat and onto his already soaked overcoat.


	6. Finally, Derek

“I shall write about drinking, because it is high time somebody approached this subject in a specific, constructive way.”

Lipstick – 1925

 

Stilinski stepped gingerly out of the car, motioning for the driver to stay where he was. He turned up the collar of his tuxedo jacket, but all the satin did was run the rainwater off the collar and down his back. He didn’t care.

He walked slowly, forcing himself not to run, until he was face to face with the rangy, dripping detective.

“Am I under arrest?” Stiles asked, taking out a cigarette.

“No, of course not. What made you think that?”

“Because I didn’t expect to see you again otherwise.” Stilinski lit his dugan and watched Hale through the smoke and the rain.

“I was thinking maybe we could get in out of the rain.” Hale pulled his overcoat closer around him and flicked the brim of his hat.

“Sure, come on.” Stilinski resisted the urge to take his arm. Instead he buried his hands in his pockets and motioned for Hale to follow him.

* * *

The Stilinski flat wasn’t at all what Hale was expecting, but then on second thought he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Unlike his office at the club which was white and rather drab, fit only for entertaining the effete high rollers that he catered to, Stilinski’s home was cool and masculine, the walls painted in Prussian blues and forest greens, furnished with expensive Persian carpets and solid oak furniture, handmade, but nothing too fancy. Hale had the impression a sea captain might have lived there, all neat and tidy, but nothing feminine about it

As soon as they hit the entry hall a no-nonsense and capable woman was on them like a mama bear.

“Land ‘o Goshen, Mr. Stiles, ain’t y’all got enough sense to stay in out of the rain?”

She felt his coat and without a word slid it off his shoulders while taking Hale’s hat and despairing over his sopping overcoat.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake… MARCUS! Marcus, y’all get in here right now! Is that bandage wet, Mr. Stiles? Does it need changing?”

"No, Bea, it’s fine."

Derek realized that the woman, whoever she was, was in charge of the place and as loyal to Stiles as the Old Guard had been to Napoleon. He recognized the comfortable chaos of home. Stilinski just smiled at her, ignoring her eccentricities while taking comfort in her presence.

“Bea, this is Detective Hale,” he said pleasantly, happy with the way the evening was working out and not doing a very good job of hiding it.

“My land, detective! You’re as wet as an otter’s pocket, so help me! MARCUS! Let’s get you out of that coat…”

A young man of about 16 came in, obviously use to being yelled at. He was a gangly kid who had just missed being handsome, leaving him neither attractive or ugly, just undistinguished. Still, his warm smile and quiet personality served him well and Hale realized immediately that he was the Bea’s son.

“Marcus, y’all get in the study and get a fire started for Mr. Stiles and his friend before they catch their death. Y’all want a cocoa, Mr. Stiles?”

“Coffee’ll be fine, Bea. Black.”

“Oh heck,” she said looking at Hale. “I should have guessed…”

She padded out of the room, smoothing out their wet coats and mumbling to herself in quiet, inquisitive tones, like she required expert advice, considering the circumstances.

“Heck?” Derek asked, smiling.

“Yeah, that’s where you go if you don’t believe in Gosh…” Stiles said, leading him into the study.

The room was as well-appointed as the rest of the house and Marcus had moved two high-backed leather chairs in front of the fire.

“That’s fine, Marc,” Stilinski said. “Detective Hale and I have some business to discuss, so why don’t you go get us coffee and let Bea do whatever Bea does at 3:00 in the morning.”

“Ok, Mr. Stiles,” the boy said pleasantly and left them alone with the lazy, crackling fire.

Stilinski flagged Hale to one of the chairs and offered him a smoke, moving a table between the chairs so that his gold case and lighter were within easy reach.

“The baron come by to gloat?” Hale asked, helping himself to a smoke.

“He came by, alright, but I didn’t give him a chance to gloat. I set him up with Peter.”

“Peter…”

“That kid from the other night. The one you thought was trash.”

“Well, not trash, exactly… just not someone…” He looked at Stilinski thoughtfully. “Yeah, ok, trash.”

“Yeah. So, it was love at first sight. They’re having dinner over at 21 as we speak.”

“Stiles…”

“I know, Derek. It was quite a shock…”

Marcus opened the wide double doors and wheeled in a cart holding a pot of fresh coffee, cream, sugar, a plate of cookies, sandwiches and an array of various cakes and pastries.

“I asked for coffee,” Stilinski said, stunned by the piles of food heaped on the cart.

“You know Bea,” Marcus said, pouring them each a cup of steaming coffee. “Can’t have coffee without something to wash it down. Will you need anything else, Mr. Stiles?”

“Not for a week,” Stilinski said snatching a sandwich off the cart. “Thank you, Marcus. Derek, help yourself to some of this…”

Hale stood up and after studying the cart for a while, chose a couple of doughnuts.

“Doughnuts, Hale? I never had you figured as the typical cop,” Stiles was smiling at him over his coffee cup.

Derek just shrugged. “Gotta keep up appearances,” he said, putting everything down on the table.

“So anyway…” Stilinski poked at the fire, because it might be necessary, though they both knew it wasn’t.

“Listen, Stiles, I don’t want to beat around the bush here… do you still…”

“Let guys strip me naked, tie me up and fuck me?”

Hale just looked at him, his expression a flawless mask of calm.

“You can’t shock me, Stiles. And you don’t need to test me, either. I may not have seen it all, but I’ve seen enough. If you want us to keep seeing each other, I have to know what I’m getting into.”

“Ok, Derek, I get it. Does it happen every night? No. Once every two or three months? Yeah, but…”

“I don’t want to hear about the baron.”

“Why would you think… the photos, sure. I thought that alone would be enough to send you packing…”

Before Stilinski could finish, Hale was out of his chair. He leaned down and kissed Stilinski hard on the mouth, then pulled away and stared at him with coal-black eyes.

“I don’t give a damn about what happened between you and the baron up until two days ago. But now it’s gonna be different, understand? Does he own the club?”

“No. But…”

Marcus was suddenly in the room, pale, obviously nonplussed.

Hale looked up and Stilinski looked around the back of the chair. He stood up slowly, opening a drawer set into the table. Hale caught the flat black of a Colt 45.

“Marcus…? What’s the matter?”

“There’s a man here, Mr. Stiles.”

“Okay…”

“Mr. Stiles, he’s got blood…”

The baron pushed his way into the room, his usually pristine dinner jacket wrinkled and smeared with blood. He’d been crying.

“Stiles…”

Stilinski was across the room in a heartbeat, gently pushing Marcus out of the door.

“Bring some brandy. Don’t let your mother in here for love or money.”

The boy nodded and closed the heavy doors behind him. Stiles led the baron over to one of the chairs and eased him down, undoing his twisted tie and checking him for wounds.

“What happened?”

The baron pushed him away and looked up at Hale.

“I’m fine. I’m alright. How do you expect me to talk with him in the room?”

“He’s the least of your worries, now tell me what happened?’

The baron looked at them both with lazy, half-shut eyes and a sob rattled through his jelly-belly frame.

“It’s Peter, Stiles. He’s dead!”


	7. Together Again

“What did you do?” Stilinski whispered.

He walked slowly around the room, his hands on his head, his face white, then he returned to the baron.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”

The baron covered his face, sobbing, and slid down in his chair. Stilinski suddenly grabbed him and, with a savage rush of adrenalin, yanked the hysterical man to his feet. He pulled back his fist, but Derek was ready for the move, wrapping his arms around him and drawing him away. He felt Stiles tense like a coiled spring, ready to throw him off, but then he turned his head and saw Derek’s face buried in his right shoulder and he immediately relaxed. Hale efficiently moved the boy across the room, preventing him from pummeling the baron into pulp.

“You’re supposed to be a master at this! You know that? You fat fuck!” Stilinski yelled at the quivering baron as Derek positioned him in front of his chair.

“You’ve pulled out all your stitches,” Derek told him.

“What…” Stilinski looked down and saw his bandage running deep crimson with drops trickling down his fingers. “Shit.”

Marcus knocked and then entered with brandy and crystal glasses on a silver tray. His face went pale at the sight of his boss standing in a pool of blood. He stopped and looked at Stiles, expecting some instruction, but the sight of the open wound had transfixed him, so the boy looked over at Hale and smiled a tight, closed mouth smile.

Derek took the tray and set it down on a table near the door, then spun the boy around and headed him back out into the hallway.

“Call the doctor and tell him we need him here as quickly as possible, then bring me some hot water, the hotter the better, antiseptic and some clean towels.”

The boy nodded and started out, but Hale pulled him back with a jerk.

“Not a word to your mother. Understand?”

The boy repeated the obedient nod and disappeared toward the back of the house.

Derek poured a glass of brandy, looked at the baron in shambles, downed it, and poured another, stiffer portion. He took the baron by the arm and moved him into a chair farther away from Stilinski, wrapping his warm, sweaty hands around the glass.

With the baron stable, or at least slightly comatose, Hale went over to Stiles and took him by the shoulders. Stilinski looked up at him, golden brown eyes that were warm and vulnerable under long, fine lashes, not the discourteous, sluggish glare he’d encountered on their first meeting.

“Come sit down,” Hale said gently, and Stilinski folded into the high back chair like an accordion. Hale gingerly relieved the boy's ruined cuff of a gold and jade cufflink. The flow of blood was slowing now, but was still more than he’d like. He rolled up the wet sleeve and looked at the bandage, more burgundy colored now, like something that had been wrapped around raw meat.

“You have to get out of here before this thing blows sky-high,” Stiles told him quietly.

“What are you going to do?” Derek was easing back the sopping tape holding the bandage. The wet had washed away the adhesive so they came off in sticky, red ribbons.

“I don’t know yet. He’ll want me to go back with him…”

Marcus knocked and came in on tip-toe, carrying the steaming water, a large bottle of antiseptic and clean, white towels. He glanced at the baron and then came and looked for a place to set the tray.

Hale moved the paraphernalia off the table he and Stiles had set up between the chairs and motioned for him to set everything down.

“The doctor will be here in 20 minutes,” Marcus told him.

“Good work. Now go and wait for him at the front door so he doesn’t have to ring the bell. When he gets here, bring him straight in. Understand?”

Marcus smiled and nodded, then went to the door, checking the level in the brandy bottle before turning and smiling again at Derek, then heading out to keep watch for the medic.

“Have I got competition?” Stilinski grinned, looking for a cigarette.

“Don’t think so,” Derek told him, looking back up into those vulnerable eyes. He fixed him up with a cigarette and then pulled the table closer and continued to gently remove the ruined bandage, using a wet towel to coax it from places where it wanted to stick.

“You have any idea where the kid might be?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, very tired now, leaning back into the chair, taking long drags off his smoke. “He’s at the club. The baron has a private room there.”

“The club? You mean…”

“It’s a private BDS&M club over in the meat packing district.”

“I’ll go down the block and call it in from a pay phone. Let homicide take care of it.”

“I can’t do that, Derek. I don’t know who’s there. You want homicide stumbling in on a collection of bare assed city fathers, bishops and high-end stock brokers getting spanked by half-naked 16-year-old boys?”

Hale’s eyes snapped up and he worked hard to keep from blowing his top.

“What the fuck? Jesus, Stiles, couldn’t you have found another line of work?”

“You mean aside from a speakeasy? When I set all this all up, I didn’t expect to fall in love with a cop.”

“Set…? Christ, you own this place?” Hale was starting to go numb. It was all too much information, but then his brain screeched to a halt and backed up.

“Love?”

“Did I say love? I must be delirious from loss of blood. I meant, you know, love.”

“You’re full of surprises tonight, buddy-boy. So, you do own this place?”

Stilinski nodded. “Along with Baron von Bratwurst over there. Look, you get out of here and go do whatever one of New York’s finest does on a rainy night. I’ll go clear the place out, then call it in on the way back here.”

“They’ll close it down; lock the doors and throw away the key. Can they connect you with it?”

“I doubt it. And closing it won’t make any difference. Once my spiffy clientele finds out the cops have been there, they won’t come back for love or money.”

“Stiles…”

“I know, Derek. If the baron lost his head and killed the kid we’ve got a bigger problem than an empty S&M club.”

“Can you trust your medic?”

“The… oh, sure. I’ll bring him with me. Shit, this mess has more aspects than a cat has hair. Let me get it worked out and… will you be home later? Can I come by?”

“Call first, just in case. You got this?”

Stiles took hold of the towel and nodded. “Now get out of here.”

Hale smiled at him and started to get up.

“Oh, and Derek?”

“Yeah?”

Stiles let go of the towel and pulled Derek’s face close to his, kissing him coolly and cleanly, his tongue tasting faintly of black forest ham and spicy mustard.

* * *

Peter's body was naked, his arms suspended and secured to a wooden cross beam like a toe-headed Christ given up the ghost. His abdomen and buttocks were covered in thick red welts and in his mouth a ball-gag still dripping with spit.

Stilinski threw an annoyed glace at the baron and then lit the cigarette he’d been rolling around on his fingers for the past 30 minutes.

“Why didn’t you just slice him up for sausage, you miserable fuck?” Stilinsky blew out a stream of smoke and motioned for the doctor to get to work.

“He told me it was ok!” the baron insisted, stumbling over a guttural whine. “He told me he wanted it harder and harder! I kept checking with him, I swear it!”

“He told you, huh?”

“Yes. Stiles, you have to believe me!”

“How’d he do that with a gag in his mouth?”

“A… “ The baron just stood staring at him wide-eyed, the veins in his neck threatening to pop.

“Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles threw down his cigarette and moved to the doctor who was holding the glistening ball-gag in one hand. With their backs turned, neither of them saw the baron suddenly relax and surreptitiously wave his hand behind his broad back. The shadows moved and then half a dozen young toughs closed in behind him.

“What do you think, Doc?”

“I can’t be sure without an autopsy, but this man didn’t die from trauma. His heart gave out… see the blue tint to his skin and look at his fingernails. Also blue. His extra-curricular activities certainly contributed, but for now I’d have to say this man died of natural causes. He must have had a weak heart.”

“Well, baron, I guess we could have stayed home and…”

Stilinski turned and saw the collection of bully-boys arranged around the room.

“I wouldn’t say so, Stiles. Getting you here alone was exactly what I wanted. I told you I’d never accept a substitute for Allen, with one exception. And you told me it would be on the house, so your $250,000 price tag is irrelevant, along with the piece of trash you tried to buy me off with. Doctor…”

Two of the boys took the medic in hand and led him out of the room.

“But what am I to do about…” the doctor was looking over his shoulder at the baron, not sure what to expect.

“Don’t worry about that. He’ll just be another boy from out of town who fell in with the wrong crowd. And if you want to see Mr. Stilinski in one piece again, I’d keep my mouth shut.”

The doctor was hustled out and the baron returned his attention to Stilinski. The baron could barely contain his excitement.

“Of course, I don’t mind telling you privately that a massive injection of stimulant ensured our young friend’s demise, so, of course, there won’t be any autopsy. I couldn’t be sure you’d come for anything less than a dead man.”

"And Detective Hale?"

"I don't want a blood bath, Stiles.  One body is more than enough, but I'll do what I have to in order to get what I want.  If he means that much to you, you'll convince him to forget the entire affair."

“I sure am going to hate lose this place” Stiles said, looking around. In his mind’s eye he conjured up the 45 he’d left at home. It would have come in handy right about now.

“We’ll give it a fine send-off, Stiles. Now, why don’t you relax and we’ll all enjoy ourselves very much.”

The baron turned and smiled at his men. Slipping out of braces and shirts, their muscular, naked torsos glistened in the dim light. Then he looked back at Stiles, beautiful, boyish, helpless Stiles. And he knew everything was going to be perfect. Just perfect.

“Strip him,” the baron ordered, beaming.


	8. The Tenderness of Wolves

Hale had waited up for Stiles, but a phone call came instead.

“Yeah?”

“Detective Hale? This is Sergeant Gillespie down at the station.”

Hale checked his watch. It was after 7:00am.

“What can I do for you, sergeant?”

“Sir, I had a phone call for you from a Doctor Monroe. He said it was an emergency.”

“Did he leave a number?”

Hale lit a cigarette and jotted down the number on the wall above the phone. He hung up and then telephoned the medic who filled him in on the events at the baron’s club earlier that morning.

“I telephoned Mr. Stilinski’s home, but they haven’t seen him,” the doctor was using his best professional monotone, but Derek could hear the worry seeping through the receiver. “I was wondering if he was with you. I’m very worried about that knife wound…”

“Listen, Doc, what’s the address of that club? And can you meet me there in 30 minutes?”

The meatpacking district started early so by the time Hale’s cab turned onto 10th Avenue it was all delivery trucks, market wagons and barges in from New Jersey waiting on steaks, chops and offal.

Hale leaned out of the cab window showing his badge and yelling, “POLICE BUSINESS!”, but it didn’t make much of an impression.

The club stuck out like a sore thumb, mainly because its doors weren’t flung open and sides of beef weren’t coming and going like on an expressway. Hale let the cab go and walked up to the doors, a heavy chain and padlock giving him an unwelcome feeling.

“Whadda ya want?”

The guy had a face only a mother could love and that was before the fights. He was dressed in a stocking cap and the ubiquitous white coat all the men wore while they handled the slabs of beef and lamb that kept the Hudson cities fed. Hale eyed the row of glistening knives kept in a holster wrapped around the guy’s belt.

“Police business,” Hale said sternly, showing his badge.

The guy let out a laugh and fingered one of the blades.

“That don’t impress me much, Mr. Wonderful. You got a search warrant?”

Hale glanced around the street, but nobody seemed to be giving them any notice. He smiled at the man and reached into his pocket.

“Yeah, I do. You got a name?”

“You call me Gus…”

Hale suddenly grabbed the man by his lapels and threw him hard against the door. As the man swung past him, Hale neatly lifted one of the longer knives and by the time the sparkles cleared out of the guy’s eyes Hale had the tip of the blade up against his groin, the steel cold and unyielding.

“I don’t have time for a lot of shit this morning, Gus. Now are you gonna open this door for me or am I gonna grease the chain with your balls? You got 5 seconds… 4, 3, 2, 1. Time’s up!”

“OKAY! OKAY! Just one question… one question…”

Hale’s dark eyebrows lifted up, burrowed into his forehead and stayed there.

“You’ll square it with the baron?” Gus pleaded. “You don’t know what goes on in there. I sure as hell…”

“The baron is the least of your worries…”

Hale spun the man around and slammed his forehead into the door, just in case he was thinking about getting distracted.

“Open it.”

Gus fumbled for a ring of keys and undid the padlock. As soon as it snapped opened, Haled yanked him away from the door and pulled the chain free, letting it rattle down from his fist, just so the moron didn’t get any ideas.

He turned and tried to run, but Hale caught him by the collar and shoved him through the door.

“You first…”

The place was dark as pitch and smelled like spilt beer, stale cigarettes and… something else. A putrid, corrupt smell that was vaguely familiar, but Hale couldn’t place it. Whatever it was, it didn’t have any positive connotations.

“Turn on some lights…”

Gus felt around on the far wall until he found a fuse box. He opened it and gingerly screwed in each of the fuses, one by one.

Given what went on in the place, low to non-existing lighting was to be expected. The result was like some twisted cathedral, a place where you could find certain of the city’s dark elite on any given night. Chain hoists were silhouetted against the wooden ceiling and metal cross beams and braces made a spider’s web of racks and devices, all of them festooned with ropes and cables of various gauge meant to harness and subdue those who came to worship here. Black velvet drapes tied to pipes loomed over it all, lending the place a demented feel.

It took a moment for Hale’s eyes to adjust to the tangle, but he didn’t have to look around long for Stiles.

“Jesus Christ…” Hale followed Gus’s gaze and once he realized what he was looking at it was all he could do to keep the panic from rising up in his throat and screaming out.

“Go call an ambulance…” he told the man in a husky voice. The guy didn’t waste any time rushing back onto the street and Hale could hear his rough coughs as he lost his breakfast onto the sidewalk.

Stiles was naked. His arms had been pulled up over his head, tied together with bailing wire and hung from a meat hook, his feet barely touching the floor. Blood trickled down from where the wire had cut into his wrists and the knife wound on his left arm had pulled open again. Hale could see that that’s what accounted for most of the blood.

He’d been beaten with some kind of heavy stick and deep red welts were risen, blue and red, on his stomach and buttocks. Cigarette burns covered his chest and red wax had been dripped on his junk and his feet. Clamps were attached to his nipples and a metal device had been attached to his balls in such a way that weights could be added to make the torture all the more excruciating. A ball gag was set deep into his mouth and spit ran down his blackened-scarred chest.

Derek stepped forward and slid slightly, his nostrils again assaulted by the sickly, putrid smell. He looked down and it was then he recognized it. At some point Stiles had messed himself and the waste had mixed with the blood. Hale placed the smell in the trenches, during the war, a 17 year old who had lied about his age and found himself in a hell he hadn’t bargained for. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and made his careful way over to the boy.

“Stiles?” Derek said gently. For a moment he was in dread that Stilinski was dead, but at the sound of his voice he could see a slight flutter under Stiles’ eye lids and a moment after that he opened his eyes slightly and gurgled something at Hale.

Derek removed the gag and threw it away. Stiles moved his mouth into something like a smile and this time his words were more or less understandable.

“What kept ya?” he breathed out, then closed his eyes again and sagged back into his shoulders.

Hale quickly and carefully removed the clamps and then started on the bailing wire.

“Dear God!” Derek heard over his shoulder and turned to see the medic setting down his bag, dropping his coat and rolling up his sleeves.

“Did you call for an ambulance?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah. On the way.”

“Let me get in there, detective. I want to make sure we won’t need tourniquets before we get him down from there. And you’d better bring him some water…”

* * *  
Hale stood at the foot of Stiles’ hospital bed, the boy wrapped up clean and white between starched sheets. The medic came in, still in his surgical gown, wiping his hands on a crisp white towel, everything so white and crisp, tinged with the scrubbed smell of bleach and carbolic soap.

“Once we got him cleaned up, it wasn’t as bad as it looked, although that wound in his left arm could be problematic.”

“How so?” Derek asked, coming up from the shock that had set in once they’d gotten Stiles into surgery.

“It’s been jerked open one too many times. We had to sew linen eyelets over it and then pull it closed that way. If infection sets in we could have a serious problem, especially given the filth you found him in…”

The whisk of cloth on cloth interrupted the conversation as Hale’s captain strode into the room, his fat thighs rubbing against one another through his suit pants, creating the odd rushing sound. He nodded at Hale then turned to the medic.

“What do ya think?” was all he said.

“About Mr. Stilinski? He’ll be fine after a few weeks of convalescence, though I can't comment on the long-term psychological effects. I wouldn’t advise him going back to work right away.”

“He won’t have to worry about that,” the captain said, patting down his pockets for a cigarette.

“Why’s that, captain?” Hale produced a smoke for his boss and took one for himself. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

“That club of his? It burned down this morning. Luckily nobody was inside when it happened. A faulty still, I think… well, no matter. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Would you excuse us for a moment, doc? I want to have a word with the detective here…”

The captain led Hale out into the hallway and puffed thoughtfully on his smoke. Derek realized that he had given one of Stiles’ custom made smokes to the captain, a fact not lost on the portly cop.

“How’d you know where to find him, detective?”

“I got a call from his doctor this morning. It came through the station.”

“Uh-huh. And how’d the doctor know to call you?”

“I met him at the club one night doing under-cover work,” Hale said with only a moment’s hesitation.

“Undercover? Who the hell are you kidding? You know anything about this kid we found dumped outside Stilinski’s club?”

“Stilin… I thought you said it had burned down.”

“Oh, it did. But it wasn’t enough to hide the fact that a naked 19 year old boy had been dumped on the street in front of the place with wounds pretty similar to what happened to Stilinski. Funny thing is, the doc found a puncture wound in the kid’s arm and he had enough amphetamine in him to kill a cow. You know anything about that, detective?”

“No, sir,” Hale replied, stunned.

“Well, give a listen, detective, because I don’t believe you. Matter of fact, I think you’re up to your neck in all this, I just can’t prove it. I also think you’re a fag and that you’ve got a rod on for that freak in there, but I can’t prove that either. So here’s the deal. You have your badge and your gun on my desk by close of business today and we’ll call it even. Otherwise, I’ll make your life a living hell starting with you back walking a beat. Is all of that crystal clear to you, detective?”

“Yes, sir,” Hale replied quietly, his life and love in ruins.

“Then have a nice day!” The captain turned and swooshed down the hall, throwing his spent butt down a stairwell along the way.


	9. Bringing in the Sheaves

Stiles started awake, bathed in sweat and darkness. His arm ached and he tried for a position that might be more comfortable.

“Stiles?”

Hearing his name in the darkness startled him and he immediately stopped moving.

“Derek?”

As his eyes adjusted, he could just make out Derek getting up from a chair at the foot of the bed. He moved closer and his face came into focus.

“You okay?” Derek asked him, smiling.

Stiles laid back against the pillows and took a moment to take in the fact that Derek was there with him, though he didn’t have to be. No one had asked him to be.

“What are you doing here, Hale? If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, you’re doing a great job.”

Derek put his hand against Stiles’ forehead. The boy eased back farther still. The coolness of Derek’s touch a bane against all his nightmares.

“Mmmmm. So cool. Can you open a window? It’s too damn hot in here.”

Derek kissed him lightly and Stiles grinned at how the man’s beard tickled his cheek. Derek opened the window and then checked Stiles’ water pitcher.

“I’ll get some fresh. You want ice?”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Derek walked out of the room and Stiles wondered why he wasn’t chafing at being waited on. Normally, he was a terrible patient. Now he had to stop and ask himself what he wanted. Derek wasn’t the kind of guy that would put up with any nonsense. He’d made his decision and he’d expect Stiles to do the same. If he was still sticking with him after the way he’d found him, he imagined that he would stick by him through anything.

Derek came back in with a pitcher of fresh water, poured him a glass and then cranked up the bed a bit so that Stiles was in a sitting position.

Stiles sipped his water and glanced at the clock. It was 3:00am.

“How you gonna sit here all night and then be at the station all day, detective.”

“You don’t need to call me that,” Derek replied evenly.

“Yeah, I know; too formal. But it’s more of a…” there was something in Derek’s tone.

“What’s happened, Derek?”

“I’m off the force. They thought I outta make a decision between… well…”

“Me or them? What a load of crap.”

Derek chuckled in the dark.

"You're never wrong."

He lit a smoke and sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling. He was exactly where he wanted to be, enjoying the company of the man he loved most in the world.

“Listen, Hale. I don’t want you to worry about this. I’ll find you something at the club… where’re my smokes?”

Derek lit a dugan for Stiles, waited until he’d taken a drag and let it out.

“There isn’t a club anymore, Stiles.”

He picked up an ashtray and set it on the bed between them.

“The baron dumped Peter’s body on the street outside then torched the place.”

Stiles was quiet for a long time. Derek was well aware of what he’d put himself through to get the money to open the place. Hearing that it was gone couldn’t have been easy.

“Did everybody get out?” Stiles finally asked. Derek couldn’t make him out very well, just the burning bud of his cigarette.

“Yeah. The place was empty. The cops have logged it as a faulty still.”

"A faulty still? Did they think I was a rookie? It was Canadian Club all the way..."

"Does it matter what they think?"

"No. You're right. Well, the baron giveth and the baron taketh away,” Stiles said ruefully. “Are you in any trouble over this… I mean, more than you are already.”

“No. And neither are you. They know Peter was murdered, but they also know he left your place with the baron and they were seen together later at 21.”

“Murdered?”

“He was shot up with amphetamine.”

“That poor kid,” Stiles said absently, trying to wrap his mind around the path of destruction that had transpired over the last 24 hours. “What about the baron?”

“Last I heard he’d disappeared. They’re watching all the ports on the east coast in case he tries to slip back to Germany.”

“Christ. Who’d have believed it?”

“Listen, I don’t know how you’re set up,” Derek said to him, unemotional as always. “I’ve got some cash. If you need any of it to get back on your feet…”

“Jesus, Derek. Fuck you, okay? Just fuck you, you big lumbering oaf…”

Derek could tell that Stiles was crying. He got up and pulled out his handkerchief, giving it to Stiles so he could wipe his face.

“Some big, bad gangster you are.”

“Get down here, detective. I’m gonna give you a piece of my mind…”

Derek leaned down and Stiles reached up and kissed him hard, enjoying the feel of his beard and his unwashed smell. He let him go and for a few moments stared into those deep, dark eyes.

“Money’s the least of our worries. We’ve got money to burn. I want to go home,” he starting to get up, but Derek pushed him back onto the bed.

“Nothing doing. You’re staying right here until Doc Monroe says it’s okay for you to leave. Every time I let you out of my sight, you do something stupid. So, no more of that.”

“Oh really? You’re gonna be sticking around, is that it? Spongin’ off of me? Making yourself a nuisance, so that I have to…”

Derek shut him up with a long, languid kiss, then took his water glass and set it on the table.

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do. You got a problem with that?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do, but I’m pretty sure I can get over it if that’s what’s required…”

The lights snapped on and the doorway filled with a formidable frame.

“Bea?”

“Mr. Stiles. Detective Derek. What are y’all worrying about at this hour?”

She moved across the room like a tank, shouldered Derek aside and picked the ashtray up off the bed. She held it out accusingly. Stiles made his eyes go big and pointed at Derek.

"Really, detective? Land o' Goshen, I’ve never met two more senseless boys in my life. Are you all right, Mr. Stiles? Do you need anything from home?”

She yanked up the bedclothes and stared intently down Stilinski’s bandaged and salved body.

“Well, pajamas, at any rate…”

“God damn it, Bea! What the hell are you doing here? And at 3:00am?” Stiles yanked the covers back down over himself and stared up at her with suspicious inquisition.

"You kiss your mama with that mouth, Mr. Stiles?  Y'all knows we’re always awake at 3:00am, the hours you keep. I'm just makin' sure y’all has everything you needed. Is he behaving himself, Detective Derek?”

“He wanted to leave, Bea, and I had the devil’s own time wresting him back into bed.”

Stiles eyes narrowed at Derek and daggers flew out of them with deadly intensity.

“Is that a fact? Well, Mr. Stiles, you just put that notion right out of your head. Is that clear? Don’t make me send Marcus to you to make you behave until Doctor Monroe says you're fit to travel.”

“How is Marcus?” Stiles asked her, pulling his death stare off of Derek.

“Y’all don’t have to worry about him, Mr. Stiles. God knows he loves ya, but he’s out running an errand just now.”

“Running an errand? At 3:00am?”

“Yes, sir. But he’ll be ‘round to see you in the morning, so don’t you fret.”

She reordered the bedclothes around Stiles and then leaned over him to fluff up his pillows. Stiles moved his head from under her tits and stuck his tongue out at Hale.

“Do you be needing Marcus to bring you anything, detective?”

“No, Bea, I think I’m fine…”

She fingered the collar of his shirt.”

“My land… well, a clean shirt, anyway, and some drawers and fresh socks, at least. Mr. Stiles, you think of anything you call the house, is that clear? We’ll be ready for you when you come home. Okay, I'm off to bed. God bless!”

She walked out of the room without a look back and closed the door behind her.

“God bless!” Derek mimicked.

“Christ, you watch. Marcus’ll be here with fresh biscuits, grits and country ham first thing in the morning.”

“You are greatly loved, Mr. Stilinski. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m sore all over, but I think you could turn out the light and then a gentle mouth massage wouldn't hurt…”

* * *

The baron swayed back and forth in the moonlight, the sea salt clinging to his greasy hair.

“You know, this is entirely unnecessary. I’m a very rich man and I’m sure we can work out a deal that would be advantageous for both of us.”

“Well maybe we should talk about that…”

Marcus also swayed as the yacht glided gently through the waves, the New York shoreline a row of bright dots sliding up and down over the baron’s shoulders.

“Yes, I think that would be advantageous… do I know you? Somehow, I feel as though we’ve met. At the Fallen Angels club, perhaps?”

“It just so happens I have a blank check that found its way from your desk to my pocket, baron. If you were to sign it, we could maybe avoid a lot of unpleasantness.”

“Yes, I totally agree… perhaps if you were to untie my hands and… um… drag me… back into the cabin I could have a look at it.”

“Oh, I’ll untie your hands, but I think it’s too nice a night to go back inside.”

“If you say so…”

Marcus leaned around the baron and freed his hands. Then he gave him the check while shining a flashlight on it.

“Hmmmm… $250,000 is a great deal of money. Do you realize that?”

“Yes, baron, I understand that. But given your circumstances, are you really going to quibble?”

“Quibble. Such a strange word… No, Marcus, I wouldn’t dream of quibbling, as you say. But I’m wondering if you couldn’t remove the concrete from around my feet? You understand? As a show of good faith. Or at least move me away from such a dangerous precipice...” The baron glanced over his shoulder at the swirling wake just inches away from where he'd been planted.

Marcus handed him a pen and a clipboard.

“You’re just going to have to trust me, baron. You don’t think I’d lie to you, do you?”

“No, actually you have a very honest face… Have you ever dined at 21? I have a standing reservation there, you know…”

“Your signature, baron? Sign it and I’ll release you, as God is my judge.”

“Well, when you put it that way and considering my circumstances…”

The baron carefully signed the check and handed it back to Marcus, who examined it and then compared it to a document he produced from his pocket.

“Well, that doesn’t look like your signature at all, baron.”

“I think you have to consider the adverse conditions under which you are forcing me to operate…”

The boy tore up the check and threw the pieces overboard, then produced a clean check and attached it to the clipboard.

“One more time?”

“Of course, since you asked so pleasantly… Why did you make it out to CASH?”

The baron took the clipboard and attached a fresh signature. Marcus studied it carefully.

“Much better, baron. And now, true to my word, I will release you…”

Marcus kicked the baron and the tub of concrete he was standing in off the back of the boat. In the blink of an eye he was gone.

“…into eternal damnation. Amen. BOYD! You can head back to shore!”

Whistling ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’, Marcus folded up the check and carefully put it in his pant’s pocket. The he threw the baron's shoes and socks overboard. The smell of fresh coffee wafted up from the galley. Still whistling, Marcus sauntered back into the cabin and looked at the clock. Plenty of time to get back home, clean up and fetch Mr. Stiles and Detective Derek their breakfasts.

 


	10. Sea and Spray

Stiles broke the surface of the light blue water and smiled at the sight of the sloop “Fallen Angel” just 20 feet away. He shoved up his mask and snorkel, and swam to the ladder hanging off her side. Once on deck he untied a canvas sack from around his waist. He peeked inside and grinned at two of the biggest lobsters he’d ever seen, before placing the sack on the deck.

“Dinner, Hale. I hope you kept your part of the bargain and found us something to drink.”

Derek leaned back in his deck chair and watched Stiles adjust the strap on his mask. He was lean, tanned and cut from swimming every day and helping to man the rigging of their elaborate sailing ship.

“Well, they had two things for sale,” Derek informed him. “Beer and something called tequila.”

“Tequila? What’s that?” Stiles dropped his mask and padded over to examine the bottle. “It has a dead worm in it…” 

“Better that than a live one, I guess. There was another brand with a scorpion in it, but I chose the worm.”

“Personal preference?”

Stiles sat down on one of the canvas cushions that surrounded the quarterdeck and looked out toward shore.

“What’s this place called again?” he wondered, studying the Mayan ruins that stood out on the cliffs above.

“Tulum,” Derek said absently, sorting through some mail. The envelopes bore the marks of being forwarded many times. “We can go explore tomorrow if you want. There’s a group of archeologists camped up there and they said they’d show us around…”

Derek turned to look at Stiles and found him studying the worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle. 

“Do you want to go ashore and see if we can find something else? Maybe the guys at the dig have some Coca Cola or something…”

“Nah. Beer’s fine. Let’s enjoy the sunset.” Stiles set down the bottle and patted the cushion next to his. Derek picked up a letter and came to sit next to him.

“Bea wants to know when we’re coming home.”

“Everything okay?” Stiles asked, taking the letter and adjusting himself so that his head was laying in Derek’s lap.

“Yeah. Fine. They’re just bored.”

Stiles grinned as he read the letter. The silence was sublime, marred only slightly by the splashing of the water against the hull and the breeze tangling with the rigging.

“What do you think, Hale? You bored with me yet?”

Derek smiled down at him and then leaned in for a long, lazy kiss.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Stiles said, going back to the letter. When he finished it, he folded it carefully and let it fall to the deck.

“I’ll send her a wire and tell her to close up the place and go home to Georgia for a while. Marcus’ll be leaving for university in the fall and she’ll get lonely there all by herself. I’ll tell her we’ll be back for Thanksgiving. How’s that sound?”

“Christmas in New York? I’ve got no problem with that. Where'll we go in the meantime?”

“I was thinking that maybe we should go back to Galveston and buy something a little bigger, with an engine this time, try for the west cost.”

“You think we need something bigger? She’s 40 feet and sound. Shouldn’t have any trouble. Do they take sail boats through the locks in Panama?”

“Who knows? We’ll find out. But even if we decide to keep her, she still needs a refit and we’ll have to pick up provisions. This coastline is pretty sparse… except for bottles of liquor with worms in ‘em…”

Stiles pried out the cork and sniffed the contents.

“And besides, you promised me we’d back in New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras.”

He dipped his little finger in the bottle and gave the tequila a taste.

‘What do you think?” Derek asked.

“I think there’s gonna be a party on the Fallen Angel tonight, that’s what I think.”

“You want to invite the guys up at the dig?”

“No, Derek, I don’t. This is going to be a private party. Something without clothes and plenty of sex.”

“You’re hardly wearing any clothes as it is…”

Stiles took a pull from the bottle, wincing at the taste.

“We drink enough of this and that won’t be the case for long,” he said, handing the bottle over to Derek. Derek shrugged and took a long swig. It was going to be a long night.

“Before we have too much more of this, maybe we should catch our dinner.”

“I already caught dinner, Hale. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yeah, I did. But they’re trying to escape…”

Stiles looked up in time to see the lobsters scampering toward the railing. He jumped up from Derek’s lap and caught them just before they tumbled back into the water.

“They’re kinda cute,” he said, looking at them as their tails slapped against his hands.

Derek walked over, took them out of Stiles’ hands and dropped them over the side. Stiles watched them float down to the bottom and shrugged.

“Oh well. I guess it worms for dinner…”


End file.
